The Gala
by Big Jay Hill
Summary: In honor of the Park's 100th Anniversary, Mr. Maellard invited the entire staff to attend the Park's Annual Spring Gala. Could this be the big break Mordecai needs to finally take his relationship with Margaret to the next level? Minor corrections made to all chapters to improve story flow. Major continuity update: Gala moved from April 22nd to 27th to match story chronology.
1. The Morning After

The morning sun streams in through the crooked gaps of cheap aluminum blinds as it bathed the bedroom in alternating strips of harsh and uneven golden light.

Above the center of the room turns the blades of a white ceiling fan. Its whoosh provides the only sound in the quiet room, apart from some light snoring, and the quiet hum of a computer left on from the night before.

Against this glare, one might make out the contents of the room: A single window, white walls from which hang the decorations of the tenant, a messy wooden brown dresser, a large queen-sized bed in the center with a pair of gray talons jutting out past the footboard, an upholstered chair with a partially crumpled mauve evening gown, a computer desk, a messy brown wooden dresser, and an equally messy brown matching nightstand.

Scattered across a scratched yellow wooden floor, one might make out the remains of the previous evening:

A leather wallet, a pair of black socks stuffed loosely into brown wing-tip loafers, red and white striped cotton boxers, a white V-neck undershirt, the crumpled trousers, jacket and vest of a 3-piece double-breasted navy-blue suit, a white dress shirt, burgundy lady's pumps, a black silk bra, and a few feathers red and blue.

Gazing up from the floor and starting in the back left corner, one would first encounter a large tall-back upholstered chair. Draped haphazardly over the chair is a partially crumpled evening dress, its shiny mauve-colored satin fabric contrasting against the gray upholstery of the chair.

Turning to the right, one would see a large pine shelf jutting out from the wall. Placed upon its yellow varnished surface are items pertaining to various moments in the occupant's life: a trophy from a soccer tournament, a photo of a child bird holding an award, some souvenirs from trips bygone, a photo of a red robin in graduation garb smiling and clutching a diploma flanked on either side by her proud parents, and finally a candid photo of the same robin hanging out at the beach with her friend, a tan furred bespectacled mole.

Next comes the window with its worn and dented taupe-colored aluminum Venetian blinds. Hanging from either side are long red drapes- an attempt to improve the other unflattering window treatment.

After the window, comes three faded sepia-tinted monochrome photographs of a bird couple housed behind a protective glass frame.

The first one appears to be taken in some unknown village in central Europe. On a bale of hay in barn with intricately carved wooden beams sit two robin-like birds dressed in traditional peasant attire. At their feet are several large pumpkins, possibly representing the year harvest. A stern expression of almost sadness is on their faces. The second photograph is apparently of the same couple still dressed in the same attire, but this time they are smiling and standing near a dock in an unknown American city. The female bird cradles in her wings a large egg, their child perhaps, while in the background, workmen are hauling cargo from a steamship onto a parked model T truck. Finally, in the third photo, they are wearing formal American attire of the early twentieth century and are standing in front of what appears to be a large stone courthouse with a large waving American flag in the center of some city. Flanking them on either side are two smaller birds, their children, and off to the side stands a short bespectacled gray wolf sharply dressed in a suit. Beneath him in white handwriting, is written "Lou Wolfson. Esq." Beneath the two birds, are written also in white, "Frank & Maria Szabo. Delta City, CA Federal Courthouse. Naturalization, 1932."

In the corner beneath sits a small L-shaped glass and steel desk. Hanging above the desk is a framed diploma, with the words "Margaret Smith, Delta City Community College, Associates Degree in Broadcast Journalism, 2004" emblazoned across the center in bold Gothic lettering. While, on top of the desk, a desktop computer, its monitor showing an endless loop of flying windows, quietly hums in the background partly drowning out the sound of faint snoring in the room.

A few feet away, a large glass dressing mirror hangs from the wall. Beneath it sits a plain but sturdy brown wooden dresser. A tortoiseshell comb with red feathers stuck between its teeth, a hand mirror, perfume bottles, and makeup are scattered haphazardly on the dresser surface, indicative of somebody having to dress in a hurry for an event. In the center of the dresser sits a small wooden chest whose half-ajar drawers reveal various pieces of jewelry in varying quality: a few family heirlooms with silver, gold, and precious stones; and other lesser pieces in nickel and rhinestone. Noticeably absent however is a pair of pearl earrings whose case sits empty atop the jewelry chest.

Turning again, we come to the right-side wall, the bulk of which is taken up by two white doors: an ordinary steel door leading to the hallway, and a long, wooden accordion door hiding the closet. On the wall, between the two doors is a large autographed poster of the rock band "Fist Pump." from their 2000 tour.

Rounding the corner, we complete our tour of the room. We come across a wooden nightstand, adjacent to the bed we saw before.

On a typical day, this nightstand would only have a black digital alarm clock, a charging cell phone, a pink vase-shaped table lamp, a bottle of prescription medicine, and a blue retainer case. But on this day, three new features have been added: a half-empty pack of Marlboro cigarettes, a green-swirled glass pipe with its bowl darkened by resin and ash, and a protective wall of half-empty beer bottles arranged like a stockade to encircle it all.

Turning one's eyes to the bed, one would find two sleeping birds: one red and one blue. Their otherwise nude bodies are covered from below the waist by a large red comforter and white linen sheets that are haphazardly covered in loose feathers that fell from their bodies earlier in the day.

In the center of the bed, propped up on a large pillow, snoring, and sleeping on his back, lies the blue-colored bird, a tall male Eastern bluejay. Sky blue feathers otherwise cover his body save for the two black bands near his wrist and a large patch of white covering his torso from top of his neck down to the abdomen. He lies there half-asleep, his pointed crest reduced to a messy tuft and his dark gray beak agape, being stirred every so often as the light and heat of the sun play across his face. His wings form a semaphore of sorts, with one lying exposed, loosely by his side, and the other draped across his partner's back.

On top of him, lies his companion. She is a crimson-colored female robin who, on ordinary days, would be this bedrooms' sole occupant. Like her partner, she too has a similar white patch on her face and chest, and the feathers atop her head form a pointed crest. Her back to the sun and glare, she lies there in serene slumber, blissfully unaware of her surroundings. Her round and delicate smiling face lay atop his sternum. Her bare white-feathered breasts press against the center of his chest, while her red wings hold him in a gentle embrace. Small pearl earrings dangle from the rim of her black comma-shaped ears.

Meanwhile, the sun continues its path across the sky. The light streaming through the blinds grows brighter by the moment. Eventually, it renders the Bluejay's sleep intolerable. With a pounding headache and stiff neck, he slowly turns his head to gaze his half-lidded eyes upon the alarm clock.

In a strained and hoarse voice, he groans, "Ughh, what time is it?"

To which the alarm clocks replies silently in flickering red LED segments, "10:45A."

The Robin, now awoken by his stirring, slowly mumbles, "Mooord-a…", only to be interrupted by the word "SHIT!"


	2. A Meeting with the Boss

It is midday on a Wednesday in the last week of March.

In a leather chair in the waiting room on the top floor of a downtown office building sat a humanoid gumball machine, dressed in jacket and tie. Looking behind him, through a large floor-to-ceiling window, he could make out the entire skyline of Delta City: the buildings, the houses, the park where he worked, and even the snow-dusted mountains beyond. Looking forward, he could see the interior of the office. It was your standard "industrial moderne" office: no ceiling of white acoustic tiles, just bare concrete with exposed pipes, round steel ducts, and skinny single tube fluorescent fixtures casting bluish-white light on the polished mahogany floors. In the distance, behind a glass wall, he could make out rows of cubicles and behind them a large conference room with a sturdy walnut table and a view of the outdoors.

Directly in front of him st a very large curved mahogany desk with the words "Maellard Capital" written on it in big brass letters. Behind the desk sat the receptionist, who for the moment was busy playing Solitaire on her computer.

Midway through her third hand, she received a call on the large gray phone on her desk. Pausing her game, she picked up the headset:

"Uhuh, will send those letters right away," said her to the unseen voice on the other end of the call.

"On a different note, Sir, there is a Mr. Benson here. He claims he is here for a 2 o'clock appointment. Shall I let him in?"

"Uhuh, ok, oh, I see, right away..."

And as she hung up the phone, she turned towards the gumball machine and said, "Sir, Mr. Maellard is ready to see you. 3rd door on the right."

And with that, the gumball machine got up from his chair and walked down the hall. Passing by cubicles and conference rooms, he walked on until coming to a large wooden door. In the center of the door was a small brass plaque engraved with the words "M. Maellard, Chairman/CEO".

"Must be it", he muttered to himself, "place has sure changed since they remodeled" before gently knocking above the handle.

The door was propped ajar, and from behind it, the gumball machine could see an old man with a cratered face smoking a pipe, wearing an Italian business suit. While not facing the door, the old man sensed the presence of a visitor and beckoned his entry, "Ah! It's you, Beanteen! Please, do come in."

The gumball machine looked around the ornate office. While he has seen it before, its contents were still a source of wonder: the mahogany floors, the beautiful oak desk, the wood-paneled walls with shelves lined with rare books and artwork, the leather chairs, and the oriental rugs.

The old man motioned to a fancy leather chair facing a large wooden desk. He beckoning his visitor to sit down, while he himself sat behind his desk, ready to face his visitor.

"So Beanteen," the old man started, "what brings you here today?"

"The name is Benson, sir." the gumball machine replied with a sigh.

"Beanteen," the old man replied with a sense of superiority, as he knew full well his staff's names. But as the boss of the firm, he will call his staff by any name he pleases; a privilege he seemed to relish in today.

"My annual performance review" continued the gumball machine.

"No, that is next month" responded the moon-faced man.

Confused, Benson asked, "If you don't mind me asking, then why am I here?"

"I'm getting too old for this, Beanteen; I just turned 150 last August. Next month we will celebrate the 100th anniversary of the Park. 100 years, do you believe that?

And I've been in charge of the park for 75 of them! It is time that I step down and name my successor. So at next month's gala, I will nominate my son, Pops, to take over as Chairman/CEO of Maellard Capital; as I believe he is more than capable of taking the helm."

Benson shuddered at the words. While Pop's is certainly a nice fellow, never once would he consider him to be mature enough to handle the management of a multi-billion real estate empire, yet here he was about to be promoted. Knowing Maellard's plan for his son, piqued his curiosity. What plans might the Boss have in store for him, he wondered. "A promotion, perhaps? Or heaven forbid, a demotion?"

"And as far you're concerned..." continued the moon face man. Benson stared at him with tight lips, saving his emotions for the final answer.

"Well, you'll be promoted to Pop's old position of Executive Director of Parks and Recreation."

"You're placing me in charge of the park?" said a shocked Benson. "Wow sir, that is quite the honor! I assure you, sir, that you have my utmost gratitude, and I will do my best to uphold..." replied the gumball machine before being cut off by the moon-faced man.

"Enough with the platitudes, Beanteen!" said the old man, interrupting Benson.

"You are not Director yet. And, as you know: next month is our annual Spring Gala! Ordinarily, seating at the Annual Spring Gala is reserved for donors only. However, given the unusual circumstances: my retirement, the Park's 100th anniversary, your promotion, and my appointment of a successor... Well, I'm making an exception. For this gala only, all park staff and their guests are hereby invited" Maellard said with a smile.

"Wow, sir! That is quite an honor, I'll be sure to tell the staff," said Benson.

And then in a split second, the old man's face went from a smile to menacing glare. Maellard's blue eyes focused on his target, with a laser-like gaze that pierced Benson's soul.

"The Mayor, the Parks Commissioner, State Senator Stampington, and several other important individuals will be in attendance" continued the moon-faced old man.

"If things go as planned, you can rest assured of your promotion and the lucrative benefits that come with it," said Maellard.

Maellard paused to let Benson self-congratulate for a bit. Then, he narrowed his eyes yet further, darkened his voice even more, and continued the conversation.

"However, if anything goes less than smooth, well getting fired shall be the least of your worries. You understand, Beanteen?"

Benson nodded sheepishly.

And in a stern yet quiet voice, he finished, "Good. Good. For, I do not want ANY FUCK-UPS... on my Park's biggest day. Y'Hear?"

"Yes", gulped Benson scared at the change in Maellard's demeanor and his sudden use of strong language.

"Are we clear?"

"Yes sir, clear as crystal", gulped Benson.

"Excellent, then what shall not happen the day of my big event?", asked Maellard wryly, wanting to be sure Benson paid attention.

"Fuck-ups, sir. No Fuck-ups on your big event" said Benson with all the confidence he could muster while holding back his fear.

He knew Maellard was a powerful man with powerful connections, not somebody to displease. He shuddered at the thought of what might happen to him, should any such "fuck-ups" occur.

"Excellent my boy!" said Maellard, while condescendingly patting Benson on the back.

"I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! Promoting you was a smart move! Even though some members of the board advised me against it. Now get back work, and do not make me regret my decision!"

As Benson was heading out the door, Mr. Maellard, "Oh..Oh...Ohh...I almost forgot... A couple just rented the ballroom for a wedding reception the day after the Gala. In return for my generosity, I trust that you and your staff can get the place clean and the job done right. Good luck my future Executive Director, Benson Dunwoody! And do not disappoint me."

"That's strange, he actually pronounced my name right for once," thought the gumball machine as he made his way to the exit.


	3. An Important Announcement

7:30 am, first Monday in April 2007.

The park's staff gathered at the stoop of the old green clapboard house for their daily meeting. In front of them, stands their boss, a tall skinny gumball machine named Benson. In his hands, he holds a clipboard attached to a sheet of paper listing the tasks for the day.

"Okay people, listen up. I've got some announcements to make!" Benson shouted at his crew.

"First off, thanks for doing your jobs and making the 5th annual Easter Bunny Run 10K last Sunday a rousing success. Thanks to your help, we raised over $20,000 for the Erectile Dysfunction Awareness Foundation… Mordecai and Rigby, please stop giggling."

Now that this is over, we need to clean up the park. Which brings us to current tasks.

"I need everyone to dispose of any remaining trash you find, be it hay bales, water bottles, and Powerbar wrappers, anything leftover from the run. If we all work together, this shouldn't take more than an hour or so, giving us time to mulch and weed the flower beds.

For this: I want Skips in the loader, Muscleman in the dump truck, and Rigby and Mordecai on rake duty. Fives and I will shred branches from last week's pruning to provide us with additional mulch, as there is not enough in our existing pile."

"Time permitting, we can start planting the annuals. We have about sixteen flats waiting in the greenhouse."

"No problem Benson!" said Skips.

"I love driving the dump truck! You the man Benson!" said Muscleman

"You know who also loves driving the dump truck?" asked Muscleman to his colleagues.

"We know Muscleman; We know!" they replied in unison.

"Damnit Benson, why do me and Mordecai always get the lame jobs?" cried Rigby.

"Why? Maybe you need to ask yourself why not? If you two slackers applied yourselves for once; and demonstrated a level of maturity, you would get the fun jobs. Last time I gave you something challenging to do, you screwed up! I had to call Muscleman's brother to bring his tow truck after you decided it would be a good idea to drive the Bobcat into the pond! So, you see my reluctance in giving you anything more than the simplest of tasks. Show me that you can work in a safe and efficient manner, then we can talk. Got it?"

"Yes Benson", whined Rigby dejectedly.

"I know right. How can you expect Benson to trust you with a chainsaw if you cannot use a hand saw properly", Mordecai teased Rigby.

"Stop talking!"

"No I won't. Back when we made birdhouses in high school shop class you couldn't even cut halfway through that ¼" sheet of plywood without your arm giving out."

"Enough you two!", yelled Benson.

"Where was I? Current tasks, done… Oh yes, upcoming events!"

"Vacations: As you know, company policy requires 2 weeks advanced notice for any PTO period longer than 1 day. Summer is approaching. So if you plan on taking some time off, you also should plan on letting me know your plans, as soon as possible."

"And last but not least, in approximately 3 weeks from now on April 22nd, the City Park Foundation will have its 75th Annual Spring Gala. This year marks the 100th anniversary of the park's founding. This will be a big event, the mayor [Rigby's eyes rolled at the mentioning], local TV crews, the Park commissioner, and even a congressional representative is going to be there. So I will need everyone's help in setting this up."

"Ohh, man. You mean the silly party where Mr. Maellard schmoozes with the other rich people in town, trying to get them to donate money for the park. My tongue's still stinging from all the papercuts I got last year from licking all those dang envelopes. Besides, Maellard would never invite us as guests, we aren't his type. And on the off chance he did, none of us could afford to go anyway," Rigby expounded.

"Whadya mean? Me and Fives went last year…", said Muscleman

"As waiters… Which means you had to work. You weren't guests!"

"Well Rigby, this year you are wrong," said Benson with a tone of excitement. "In fact, I think all of you would be pleased to learn that you, me, and the rest of the park staff are all invited to attend the gala for free."

"Yep. In recognition of our hard work, Mr. Maellard is extending the invitation to the entire park family and would like us to attend as his guests of honor."

"What? No way!" said Mordecai.

"Huh?" said Hi-Five ghost.

"Way!" replied Benson.

"Good show!" exclaims Pops.

"I don't know…this sounds highly unusually" said Skips in his usual cynical tone.

"I know right. Who'd think the old skinflint had it in him?" said Rigby in response.

"Furthermore, for the first time in almost 20 years, the party is being hosted right here in the park, at the old ballroom we renovated last spring."

"Sweet" "WOOOO" "Yeahhhhh" "Good show" exclaimed the different members of the staff except for Mordecai. Oblivious to the conversation unfolding around him, he was busy daydreaming, daydreaming about bringing Margaret with him to the gala. He smiled as he thought about how beautiful she would look in a dress, and how happy he would be to bring her along. Hopefully, she will come; hopefully she feels the same way about him as he does about her.

"Now don't get too excited, there are a few rules we need to go over. As you will be representing the park, I expect you all to be on your best behavior. If you cannot handle it, my advice would be not to go. As failure to follow these rules can jeopardize your continued employment at the park," Benson exclaimed.

"First, everyone is allowed two guests for free. If you want to bring three, then somebody else must agree to give you one of their invitations."

"You know who else is allowed to bring two guests?" said Muscleman to his co-workers.

My mom!" yelled Muscleman, as the others cringed at the repetitiveness of his joke.

"Um, unfortunately not," said Benson is his classic deadpan voice. "She can however be one of your guests, Muscleman."

"Sorry, Bro!"

"No problem, moving along…"

"Second, given this is a formal affair, I expect proper attire."

"Dude, I ain't wearing no suit", exclaimed Rigby.

"Me neither, bro!" said Muscleman in agreement.

"I said PROPER ATTIRE!" said an irritated red-faced Benson, his voice rising to an angry shout.

The crowd grew silent, and Benson continued, in his normal voice:

"And Third, there will be an open bar. However, I am limiting you all to three drinks apiece."

"What? No way! This sucks!"

"And no driving. If you drive to the park; you leave your keys with me and pick them up the next morning. This includes the cart…"

Muscleman and Fives started chatting about cutting donuts in the grass with the cart.

"I SAID THIS INCLUDES THE CART!" Benson got angry once more.

"However, as a reward, if you behave yourselves, I will be having an afterparty of sorts at the house."

"AHHHHH YEAH! AFTER-PARTAY!" screamed Rigby.

"Good show!" explained Pops.

"However, there is one more catch, mandatory cleanup starts at 10:30 am the day after. Miss it and be fired. Any questions?"

Nobody raised their hand.

"Good, now let's get to work!"

And with that, everyone got up and left for their respective jobs. Everyone but Mordecai, who was still lost in reverie, and Rigby, who was waiting for his partner to snap out of it.

"Mordecai? Mordecai? Mordecai! MORDECAI! EARTH TO MORDECAI!" said Rigby in a rising voice.

"Huh, huh, What?" said a startled half-awake Mordecai.

"BRO, you were completely zoned out for the last half of the meeting."

"Uh, was I?"

"Uh yeah. Not only that, everyone left 10 minutes ago!" said Rigby with a chuckle.

"Sorry"

"Lemme guess, you were thinking about taking Margaret to the party."

"No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were"

Rigby and Mordecai began to argue:

Just then, Benson spotted them as he was walking by.

'What in the hell are you two still doing here?! I gave you two slackers an assignment. NOW GO DO IT!"

"Sorry, Benson. Rigby and I were just having an intellectual conversation" said a surprised Mordecai.

"WALK AND TALK!"

"I NEED YOUR LAZY ASSES IN THE CAMELLIA BEDS NOW! SKIPS AND MUSCLEMAN ARE ALREADY THERE, WAITING!"

"WHEN I COME BACK IN AN HOUR, I EXPECT TO SEE YOUR LAZY ASSES HARD AT WORK. IF THEY'RE NOT, YOUR FIRED! UN-DER-STOOD?"

"Yes, Benson" they sighed. Continuing their argument, they walked to the camellia bed.


	4. Downtime

It is the end of the day, the sun is setting, and a chill is in there air. Benson, sensing this, yelled out to his still working crew: "Alright gentleman, it's time to call it a night! Let's bring these tools back to the shed."

The crew picked up the tools and left for the shed, except for Muscleman and Skips, who instead drove the dump truck and the skid steer back to their parking spaces in the maintenance yard.

"I better have a look at what those two slackers are doing," said Benson to himself.

To his surprise, he saw them in the shed, stacking and hanging tools. Benson walked up to Mordecai and Rigby to congratulate them on a job well done. "Well boys, I must say, I was quite impressed with the efforts you put forth today You keep working like that, and soon you'll be driving the truck." Focused on their work for once, the two slackers did not notice, Benson only smiled in response.

"Well, I'm off. See you in the morning!"

"See ya, Benson!" said the crew.

"See you..drive safe!" said Hi-Five Ghost.

Later that evening, at the old park caretaker's house...

Mordecai and Rigby are in the living room, playing video games. Muscleman and Starla are in the kitchen having a late dinner. A tired Pops is in the living room, trying in vain to convince Mordecai and Rigby to call it a night.

Bags of chips and empty cans of cola litter the floor around them, while the two sat at the edge of the couch, eyes glued to screen, greasy hands gripping the controllers like a vise. The level they were on, being particularly difficult, would lead to frequent grunts and curses as their characters died, leading to more sips of caffeinated cola being drunk and handfuls of chips being munched.

Pops gave them a worried look, "Boys, if you keep drinking that stuff you won't fall asleep, and tomorrow is a busy day"

"Yeah, we know Pops… thanks for your concern" said Rigby, without making eye-contact.

"Boys, I understand how you feel, but midnight approaches and soon shall I retire to my bedchambers; I advise you to do the same."

"Before you know it, morning shall be upon us. By then, you would've had no rest." And with that last effort of persuasion, Pops left for his bedroom upstairs, leaving the two to their fate.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Muscleman and his fiancé are finishing their dinner of instant macaroni and jug wine.

"Oh Mitch, I love it when you cook for me! And you made Italian. How romantic!"

"Anything for you babe!" said Mitch as he reached in for a passionate kiss.

"Mac and cheese isn't Italian," said Mordecai without turning his head, annoyed both by Muscleman's ignorance and the sound of lip-smacking affecting his concentration.

"Oh yeah, smart ass! Then why did Chef Boyardee put his name on it? Huh! Huh! Huh! Huh!" said Muscleman, heckles rising with each "Huh".

"It's a brand, dude," said Mordecai, rolling his eyes.

"So, what's your point?" said Muscleman, still angry.

"I'm not going to even answer that question," said Mordecai, knowing how Muscleman would get belligerent. Not wanting to waste time with an argument, Mordecai preferred to let his co-worker bask in his own ignorance than to take time away from his video game, and risk his character dying.

"That's because you lost the argument!" said Muscleman with satisfaction.

"Whatever..." said Mordecai, unconcerned.

A few minutes later, Muscleman and Starla finished eating. Walking over to the sink, they gave their plates a quick rinse before shoving them into the dishwasher.

"Alright losers, me & Starla are off to my trailer to have sex. See you in the morning! Don't forget to run the dishwasher, I expect my bowl to be clean for cereal tomorrow! You hear!"

"Sure, won't forget," responded Mordecai, unconcerned.

"Oh, Mitch! Let's do it Doggystyle, my favorite position" said a wide-eyed Starla to her lover.

"Sure thing, babe!" responded Muscleman as he and Starla walked off into the night, slamming the front door behind them.

Mordecai shuddered as a feeling of nausea crept over his stomach as he thought about in vivid detail Muscleman and Starla getting it on; and in his mind, could see and hear the smacking together of green, sweaty, flabby skin. Distracted by this, Mordecai let his character get shot by an enemy, costing him the game.

Rigby giggled and said, "Oh man, you got pwned..."

"Whatever, dude... I'm done with this stupid-ass game. I'm going to the porch for a cigarette, see you in a bit," said Mordecai as he rose from the couch.

"Wait, Mordecai! Don't leave yet. I got something I want to show ya," said Rigby, with a sly devilish grin. Mordecai paused, curious as to what Rigby had to show him. Not one to miss his smoke break, he cast a stern glance and said: "Rigby, this better be good."

"Oh it is... trust me", said Rigby as he got down on his stomach and crawled underneath the couch.

Seconds later, he emerged.

Chips, gum wrappers, and dustballs and other trash stuck to his fur. Yet despite his unseemly appearance, a grin spanned across his face from ear to ear.

For there he stood in triumph, a large bong made of green-tinted glass in his left hand and a plastic bag full of weed in his right.

He looked at Mordecai with a mischievous grin and raised his eyebrows a few times, "Look what I found!"

Unfortunately, Mordecai was not impressed.

Overcome with indignation at Rigby's lack of discretion, he scolded his friend:

"Dude, what the hell are you doing with that in the living room?! Are you a moron?"

With no response from Rigby, Mordecai continued:

"You're supposed to keep that shit in the attic. If Benson finds out we're smoking in the house, we're toast! Not even Pops can give us our jobs back. Is that what you want, to lose your job? For us to lose our jobs?"

"Relax dawg, nothing's going to happen. It's legal now, remember?" responded an unconcerned Rigby.

"Only for medical purposes…with a prescription. When's the last time you saw a doctor? Hmmm!"

Rigby said nothing. He was already packing the bong and was too busy to continue the conversation.

"Hmmm! Hmmm! Hmmm!... thought so", said Mordecai, out loud, but ultimately to himself.

"Anyways, I'm opening the window," said he, as he did just that.

"If you are going smoke, at least let's air the place out so Benson won't smell it in the morning."

Rigby ignored him and continued with his work.

Satisfied with his setup, Rigby reached for his lighter and let out a deep breath.

"Here goes", he muttered as he struck the lighter, before wrapping lips around the mouth of the bong. While holding the flame to the mass of weed assembled in the bowl of the bong, he draws in a massive inhale of smoke. Feeling satisfied, he withdrew his mouth from the bong, and held his breath for a few seconds, before erupting into a fit of coughs.

"WHEWWW, THAT'S SOME DANK-ASS WEED!" he remarked hoarsely while coughing, as the smoke cleared from his lungs and filled the air around him.

After the spasms wore off, Rigby shouted over to Mordecai, who by now, was in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge, looking for something to drink.

"Alright Mordo, you're up!"

At this point, Mordecai gave up on trying to convince his friend not to smoke in the living room. Still, he was reluctant to join him, although the temptation was certainly strong.

"I don't know bro...That guy we bought the weed from, he kept talking about how strong it is, and how we'd have to exercise caution and use it at our own risk and stuff. Besides weird shit always happens, when we get high."

"Dude, weird shit happens to us even when we are sober", replied Rigby as he began a recap of their crazy adventures: caffeinated monsters, sentient radio stations, Earth splitting into two for failure to perform a Solid, diary guardians, animal graveyards, zombies, and other zany things.

After offering enough examples to hopefully convince his friend, he concluded by saying:

"The way I see it, Mordo, crazy stuff will happen to us no matter what we do. But if I'm high, at least I can find it amusing."

"Well you got a point there," said Mordecai.

Realizing his friend won't take no for an answer, and curious himself about the quality of the weed, he instructed Rigby to pack him a hit, "Go for it!".

"At your service!" said an excited Rigby as he joyously packed the bong.

Mordecai left out a deep breath and drew in the hit.

As a bird, he lacked a diaphragm, and could only draw in so much before coughing uncontrollably.

"Dude, that was a weak hit. Is that all you got?", said Rigby with disappointment, not cognizant of the differences in anatomy between mammals and birds.

Worried that his friend may not have received an adequate dose, prepared to pack him another hit. "Want me to pack you another?"

Mordecai could only cough in response.

"You sure about that?"

"No, I'm good", said Mordecai, finally able to talk.

He melted into the couch. As his body relaxed and the high kicked in, he slowly slipped into a dream.


	5. Flight School part 1

Fourteen Years Ago. Delta City General Hospital Emergency Dept. Waiting Room...

Huddled close together on a bench sat two bluejays, one female and one male. The female one had blonde hair-like feathers atop her head. She wore a mint-colored blouse and blue jeans. A look of worry and anticipated grief stretched across her face. Sitting beside was her husband, a male blue jay with wearing a gray t-shirt, brown leather jacket, and blue jeans. Like his wife, he too had hair-like feathers atop his head, however, his were brownish gray. He tightly clutched her hand while placing his opposite wing around her in a vain attempt to console her. Vain, in that he had little reassuring to say, given his state of worry.

Through a swinging door came a brown-haired man. He wore khaki pants, a blue collared shirt, a red tie, and a white doctor's coat. On the left lapel, just above the stethoscope pocket, was a small white cloth patch. Embroidered in blue thread, was the following: his name, Dr. Stewart; his profession, neurologist; and the name of the hospital, Delta City General Hospital. After speaking to the nurse at the front desk, he walked over to the bluejays. Bending slightly at the knee and leaning in, he approached them on eye-level as a gesture of thoughtfulness and privacy. Expecting the worst but hoping the best, the two birds listened closely to what he had to say.

"Mister and Missus Quintel, that son of yours is quite a sturdy boy. He took a nasty fall back there and had quite the concussion. Given what happened, he is lucky to be alive."

"Oh, Dear! Doctor, will my baby boy ever walk again?" said the worried mother, holding back tears.

"That M'am I cannot answer with certitude. However, the initial CAT scans do show some promise. But, we'll have to wait for him to wake up before we can know for sure. One thing, I can say, is that given the circumstances, I advise against having him ever fly again."

The husband then asked the doctor, "So are you are saying, we should clip his wings?"

"That would be a prudent decision" replied the Doctor.

The female blue jay began to cry at the thought of clipping her baby's wings.

Reached into her purse, she grabbed a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.

Present. 2 am...

Rigby sat upright on the couch eyes glued to the TV. Sitting next to him was his best friend, head slumped back, eyes half-closed, mouth agape.

Suddenly the TV screen went black. Shouting over the blackened screen, came the obnoxious voice of TV pitchman.

"Parents...Trying to teach your kids to fly, But don't know what to do?"

The screen lights back up again, and a sequence of grainy black-and-white footage appears on the screen:

A father bird is holding his son horizontally by the waist; moving him in up and down and side to in sweeping arcs, mimicking the art of flight.

A mother bird is standing at the edge of a platform try to encourage her daughter to jump off. The little girl just stands there and shakes her head, refusing to move.

Against this backdrop, the narrator continues his pitch.

"Do you want them to soar, but they just won't leave the nest?"

"Maybe it's time, you called The Coach!"

Meanwhile, Rigby was shaking his best friend, trying to rouse him from slumber.

"Mordecai...Mordecai...Wake up...Mordecai...Wake up"

"Huh," said the startled blue jay, "Huh. I must've dozed off."

"Bro," said his raccoon friend, "it's that infomercial for that flight school thingy! You know the one with the eagle dressed up as a coach. It's about to start!"

"Oh yeah! don't wanna miss that," said Mordecai chuckling.

The black-and-white footage ends and fades into a color scene of large summer camp nestled between trees in a mountainous landscape.

Small wooden cabins surround a lake with a large artificial beach. Rising from the sands one can see numerous tall wooden platforms. The tops of these platforms are covered with some type of synthetic weatherproof carpeting to provide cushioning and grip. Spaced between the platforms are springy fiberglass poles forming what appear to be slalom gates. Beneath it all was a large black safety net.

Soaring high above this camp was a large speck of a bird. Suddenly, the bird did a barrel roll before dropping into a nosedive.

A vast cloud of sand and dust rose as the diving bird closely swooped the ground before pulling up. Using his large wings as air brakes, he quickly scrubbed off speed and did a pirouette before landing on one foot.

There he stood, a tall bald eagle of middle age with a slight paunch but otherwise muscular build. He was missing many of the feathers on his head, giving him a vulture-like appearance. He was quite literally, "a bald bald eagle." Stretched across his barrel-like chest was a red polo shirt with the word "COACH" printed in simple black letters. This shirt was tucked neatly into a pair of gym shorts that terminated just above his knees. Beneath, the rest of his legs were bare save for a few strips of black tape wrapped around his lower calf and ankles. The black tape contrasted with the yellow skin of his talons and made his feet look like a bee.

A silver whistle and a black stopwatch hung from his neck. Tucked underneath his right arm was a wooden clipboard.

He quickly shook off the dust and began his speech. His booming voice, and Southern accent reminded Rigby of a cross between Colonel Sanders and Foghorn Leghorn.

"Greetings! My name is Coach Troy Jacobson, founder, and owner of Camp TJ School of Flight Instruction. And this here is my flight school"

"For almost 30 years, We've been teaching young people the art of flight."

"Here at Camp TJ, we believe that learning to fly should be healthy, safe, easy, and fun." [cuts to photos and footage of various young birds in flight with coaches and instructors cheering them on].

"As a young coach, I was disappointed with the current state of flight instruction. [cuts to footage of young Coach Troy with all his head feathers intact shouting commands and looking at his stopwatch]. I worried that current methods were ineffective. And millions of years of ancient avian tradition[stock footage of birds in flight] may die within a generation [cuts to footage of birds driving cars, followed by footage of a traffic jam], lost to modern technology. Over countless hours, I developed my proven "Flying is Easy" methods to take the guesswork of learning to fly and make it easy and intuitive for youngsters. I then released them to the world [cuts to footage of Coach Troy's book, aptly titled "Flying is Easy"]. Not satisfied with writing a book, I started a camp to put my methods in practice. [Cuts to more footage of a younger coach Troy, including images of him smiling in front of his newly built camp]."

"25 years later, our organization has grown from humble beginnings to be a world leader in quality flight instruction."

"Sure, there are faster ways to get from one point to the next. [Cuts to footage of an airplane landing]. But nothing beats the freedom of having the wind beneath your wings. And there's no better way to boost creativity and self-confidence, instills discipline, and builds healthy bodies and minds. So stop by one of our locations, and leave the teaching to us. Your kids will be soaring in no-time."

"We are so confident, that for a limited time, we are offering 50% off the regular price of our introductory summer class to the first 100 students who sign up."

"So come down and stop by one of our 15 locations [cuts to the camp in the beginning]."

A large group of students and instructors are now gathered behind Coach Troy. Together, they shout in unison, "Soon you'll be soaring in no time."

The commercial then cut to an 800 number, with the pitchman reading as fast as possible, a long list of terms and conditions.

Mordecai started to laugh, as the commercial ended.

"What a racket," he said.

"Can't believe he's still in business, getting parents to shell out money to teach their kids to fly. With modern transportation, what's the point? A plane or even a car will get you there faster with a lot less effort?"

"I don't know. Tradition, perhaps?" replied Rigby.

"A dumb tradition, if you ask me" scoffed Mordecai. "Society has advanced, and you must learn to adapt with the times, even if you're a bird."

"So is that why I never see you fly? Because it's obsolete?" asked Rigby.

"Yea" responded Mordecai.

"Or because you don't know how to... Hmmph Hmmph... Hmmph Hmmph... Hmmpp Hmmph..." said Rigby inquisitively.

"No Rigby, I know how to fly," said an annoyed Mordecai, condescendingly.

"Then why didn't you do so when you jumped out of the chopper at Margaret's Family Reunion?"

"Dude, I had her dad holding my hand for dear life. I wasn't about to let go... Besides, he weighs like over 200 pounds. I couldn't generate lift for the both of us!"

"Besides Rigby, remember that time when you wanted to be player one, and you 'death punched' your way all through Earth's crust. How do you think I got us out of there?"

"You jumped. That wasn't flying, it was some over-glorified karate jump"

"Oh yeah, well how about the time when we got stuck in the woods with Benson, we were chased by those ghosts, and I had to get us off that cliff?"

"Boy, that wasn't flying, just falling, and maybe gliding. Furthermore, you botched the landing and damn near got our asses killed." laughed Rigby.

"Face it, Mordecai! You cannot fly, and you are jealous of other birds who can."

"Hmph. Hmph-Hmph. Hmph. I'll show you! You won't be laughing so hard jackass, once you see me fly!"

"Fine, Mordecai. Show me you can fly, tee-hee!"

Mordecai jumped up and flapped his wings. He hovered in the air for 10 seconds and then landed on his feet.

"See, Rigby?" he said.

"That's not flying, that's hovering!" said a doubting Rigby.

"Whatever dude, I'm going outside for a cigarette," said Mordecai as rose from the couch.

"Come on boy, show me some real flying!" said an unconvinced Rigby to Mordecai, who at that moment had his back turned.

Quickly, Mordecai's mind flashed back to a time, 14 years ago. He was standing in a large gymnasium. Coach Troy was there beside him, "Come on boy, show me some real flying! Show me some real flying... Show me some real flying...[echoes]" He turned around, let out a small scream, and then punched Rigby hard in the arm.

"Owww! That hurt. Whyd'ja do that for?" said Rigby as he rubbed his arm.

"Cause you're being an idiot," said Mordecai in a deadpan manner. He still felt ashamed at the incident 14 years ago. Knowing that he couldn't fly made him feel useless as a bird, and more like a human trapped in a ridiculous looking bird body. Eventually, he'll need to come clean, just not now at 3 am on a work night.

"Now grab me a beer from the fridge before I punch your other arm."

Rigby meekly walked over to the fridge and pulled out two cans of beer.

He returned to the couch and shoved one of the beers into Mordecai's chest.

"Here, take it!" said an angry Rigby to Mordecai.

"Asshole" Rigby whispered without Mordecai hearing him while rubbing his injured arm.

After 10 minutes of awkward silence, Mordecai spoke:

"Rigby, I'm sorry for hitting you"

Rigby's arm still hurt, but he was ready to forgive. As much as he resented Mordecai for what happened, Rigby loved his best friend like a brother and could not hold a grudge.

"That's okay Mordecai, I'm used to the abuse. But still, why'd you hit me? I wasn't trying to be rude or anything."

"OK, I'll explain. But promise not to laugh at me."

"I was a student at Camp TJ, back in 5th grade, except I never finished. I got injured, had to drop out, pretty much spent the rest of the summer in the hospital recovering."

"So, that's where you were! I wondered why you were gone that whole summer. Why'd you never tell me this before?"

"Well, maybe because I was embarrassed, being a bird and all. Maybe, because you'd judge me for it"

"Me? Judge you?"

"Ho! Ho!" laughed Rigby heartily. "You're talking to a high school dropout. Why would I do that?"

His arm still stung, but he wasn't mad at Mordecai. He only wished, his friend would lighten up a bit more.

He packed the bong again and offered his friend a hit.

"Listen Mordo, I want you to know that I'm your friend, and will always be there if you need someone to talk to."

"Sorry again for hitting you."

"Noted...Anyways, I'm packing another hit," said Rigby, "want some?"

"Sure!"

They both took hits from the bong.

The TV, still on, continued with another commercial, this time for stainless steel kitchen knives imported from Japan, apparently forged from the same steel used to craft Hanzo Hattori's legendary blade. After using the knife to cut through a piece of concrete without dulling, the host effortlessly julienned a carrot. Having demonstrated the effectiveness of the knife, the commercial cut to the "special TV offer" available to those ordering in the next 30 minutes.

Neither of them paid attention.

As before, Rigby took in the bigger hit, while Mordecai could only do a small puff before coughing.

"Boy, what's wrong with you?" asked Rigby disappointed.

"Birds don't have diaphragms," replied Mordecai, before coughing again.

"Shit, I knew I shouldn't have slept through bio class!" said Rigby, laughing at himself.

"No probs. Now you know," said Mordecai as he coughed and laughed at the same time.


	6. A Casual Conversation

It's 2:30 am, Mordecai and Rigby are both still up getting high, playing video games, drinking beer, and energy drinks.

Rigby is busy playing Halo, single-player campaign mode, on the Xbox he got for Christmas last year. Sitting next to him is Mordecai, trying to relax. Balanced on his slouched chest is a Walkman, connected to a pair of headphones, the sound of Rush's 2112 leaking out of his ears. In his left hand, he holds a beer. In his right hand, he holds a cigarette.

Mordecai is a quiet stoner, just trying to relax and enjoy his high. Rigby is the complete opposite, he is hyperactive and desperate for conversation.

"Gees Rigby, can you stop talking for one minute, so I can enjoy my high?" said an annoyed Mordecai as the feather on the back of his neck ruffled.

"Bro, Relax! I'm just trying to have a casual conversation," Rigby quickly replied.

"Me? Relax? How can I? When you won't shut up!"

"Sorry, I just wanted to talk to you about something."

"Bro, I'm worried about you."

"Don't be."

"It's about Margaret."

"What about her?", sighed Mordecai.

"I don't think you should see her anymore."

"Why? Is it because I spent too much time with her? Man, you're just jealous that I have a girlfriend" said Mordecai nonchalantly as he closed his eyes, hoping that Rigby would leave him alone.

"No, I'm not jealous. How can I can be jealous of someone for something that they don't even have? It's like, neither of us own cars, so why should I be jealous of you owning a car?" said Rigby, raising his voice to a whining pitch.

"Dude, shut up," said Mordecai

"No, seriously! Hear me out! You have two girls: one you're in love with, but she put you in the friendzone; the other you like as a friend but aren't attracted to her any further. Unfortunately, because you still like her and you want to keep your options open, you keep talking to her; only to lead her on."

"Whatever, dude! Margaret and I aren't in the friend zone... Furthermore, I don't see why you have a problem with me keeping CJ on my friendslist; I like the photos she posts on Facespace."

"Well Don Juan! What is the furthest you gone with Margaret?"

Rigby's question made him feel uneasy and uncomfortable.

"Umm. Ummm..." muttered Mordecai in hesitation before blurting out.

"Dude! I don't ask you about your love life!" said an angry Mordecai; his feathers ruffled again on the back of his neck.

Rigby stared at him inquisitively, still waiting for a valid response.

"Screw this I'm grabbing a beer." said Mordecai as he rose from the couch, hoping that Rigby would change the subject or leave him alone.

"Bro, just answer the question," Rigby responded. Mordecai was only a few feet away.

There he stood, hovering menacingly over Rigby, his right hand slowly clenching into a fist.

"Why? So you can make fun of me?" said Mordecai to Rigby as he got cocked his fist, ready to punch him in the arm once more.

"Jesus Christ Bro, Don't be so frickin' defensive. I just want to help. I don't want to see my best friend getting hurt by some girl who may or may not love him." Rigby pleaded. His eyes got misty. For a second, Mordecai thought his best friend was about to cry.

Seeing the sincerity in Rigby's eyes, and hearing it in his voice, Mordecai slowly unclenched his fist and sat down beside his friend. "Fine, I'll answer your question," said he.

Leaning back into the couch, Mordecai closed his eyes and strained his brain as he attempted to recall everything he and Margaret have done so far.

"Well, we've kissed, and we've, um, um, um..." said Mordecai.

"Continue," responded Rigby.

Unfortunately, Mordecai could only say "um."

Rigby decided to be more direct in the hope of forcing an answer.

"Did you guys have sex?"

Mordecai paused for a moment, bowed his head and sheepishly shook it from side to side.

"Did she give you a handjob?"

"Dude! What the hell kind of question is that!"

"Just answer the question."

Mordecai shook his head side-to-side.

"Have you seen her naked?"

Once again, Mordecai shook his head side-to-side.

"Has she seen you naked?"

This time, Mordecai shook his head up-and-down.

"Cool dude, but that doesn't count. Neither you nor I wear any clothes"

"How many dates have you been on?"

"At least fifteen", replied Mordecai laconically.

"OK, I know you don't like hearing me say this, but you're definitely in the friendzone. Simple facts, man. I don't think it took Muscleman and Starla that many times before they started to get it on. And I know as fact that Margaret didn't have to date Slasher fifteen times before hooking up with him. Why? 'cause Eileen told me. Moredecai, you've been at bat fifteen times. I'm not asking you to score a home run, but the fact is you haven't even gotten past first base. That, my friend, should tell you something."

Rigby paused, and waited for his words to sink in. After several minutes of awkward silence, Rigby decides to take another hit of weed, before checking on his friend.

"Mordo?"

"What!?" said Mordecai, simultaneously feeling annoyed and dejected.

"Got anything to say?" asked Rigby.

He quickly glanced at the wall clock. Seeing it was 3:00 am, he decided to go to sleep.

"Later dude, I'm going to bed."

"Ah C'mon!"

"No, Rigby. It's 3am."

"Shit! You're right!" said Rigby as he glanced at the clock.

Down on all fours, like a wild animal, he ran up the stairs to his bed. "See ya in the morning, Mordo!"

"Yeah, see...you...in...the...morning," said a now depressed Mordecai.

"I probably should hide this bong first so Benson won't find it in the morning", he thought as he walked upstairs, bong in hand.


	7. Trash Panda

Delta City

High School... Senior Year, 7 years ago...

"Well, well, well. If it isn't Trash Panda," said a tall muscular silver-furred Arctic fox wearing blue jeans, a red leather varsity jacket with white lettering, and black Reebok sneakers. He smiled, showing off his sharp pearly white teeth, as he towered over the short brown raccoon, who was busy reaching in and out of his locker, trying to collect his books. The fox's large muscular arms formed a cage around Rigby, boxing him inside.

"Not now, Ricky, I need to go to class," said Rigby trying his best to ignore his bully.

His bully was none other than Ricky Stewart-Blanco, the living embodiment of everything Rigby was not. He was strong, he was smart, he was popular and he was handsome. For someone like Ricky, success came naturally. While Rigby would not graduate that year, Ricky already got accepted by Harvard. Furthermore, success was not limited to Ricky but infected the entire Blanco-Stewart family like a virus. His younger sister, Sara, a freshman, was a talented actor and singer, and already made a name for herself in the school play. His mother, Katherine Stewart-Blanco, is a lawyer with political ambitions. Formerly a prosecutor, she now serves as councilwoman for the 6th district. Eying her next move, she made plans for the Delta City mayorship. Finally, there is the father, John. A successful lawyer in his own right, he prefers to be the background, earning money to finance their ambitions, but letting his wife and kids bask in the limelight.

Like many other kids, Rigby had dealt with his share of bullying at school. However, Ricky was different than the rest of the bullies. Rigby could take comfort in knowing his other enemies were insecure and weak, needing to pick on someone else as a means to boost their self-esteem. Ricky, however, was different. By any objective measure, Ricky was Rigby's superior. For all Rigby knew, Ricky was within his rights to treat Rigby as his inferior. All Rigby could do was sit back take the abuse as stoically as possible, and that made it hurt so much more.

Strange as it may seem, there was a time when Rigby and Ricky were friends, or at least, tolerated one another. Back in elementary school, they even went to each other's birthday parties. Unfortunately, that ended when Rigby was in 8th grade. Upset at her vote to raise property taxes, Rigby's dad ran against her for City Council, ultimately losing. Rigby and Rick have been enemies ever since.

"What's this? Trash Panda's going to class for once? Well, Isn't that sweet? Too bad you'll fail anyway. Ha Ha Ha!"

"Don't call me that, Ricky. Contrary to your stereotypes: My people don't live in dumpsters. We own houses, we drive cars, and we hold normal jobs. So if you'll excuse me, I need to go to class."

Rigby tried to duck under one of the fox's arm, only to get a hard shove into the locker by the other arm.

"Sorry kid, but this here's a toll bridge. Give me 5 bucks... if you wanna pass."

"Ricky, you're not getting 5 bucks... I may not be as tall as you, as strong as you, as popular as you, as smart as you, or as rich as you. My mom's not running for mayor, nor is she on the City Council. But if I got one thing going for me, at least I don't look like the mutant offspring of an Akita and a squirrel. So if you excuse me..."

"What you'd call me, punk?" said Rick, angry at Rigby's sudden audacity. Ordinarily, Rigby wouldn't stick up for himself, but this time appears different.

"Oh, you heard me, Ricky. Leave me alone, I have a class to attend" said Rigby, as he tried to extricate himself from the menace.

As Rigby tried walking away, Ricky stuck out his foot and tripped him. The raccoon and his books fell to the floor. "Ooomph!" said he, as he hit the slick linoleum floor.

"You think you so brave, tough guy? Try this on for size," said Ricky as he reached down the back of Rigby's pants. He grabbed a hold of his underwear, and with one fell swoop, he lifted the back of his white briefs up and over the top of Rigby's head, tearing a hole in the elastic.

Rigby was lying on his stomach, in the hallway, wincing in pain, wearing an "Atomic Wedgie."

"Owwww. My balls! My balls! My nutsack got split into two!" Rigby cried in pain.

As Ricky walked away, chuckling to himself, a crowd of fellow students gathered around Rigby, laughing at him, as he lay helplessly on the floor.

Embarrassed, tears of shame started flowing from his Rigby.

From the back of the crowd came his friend Mordecai.

"Out of the way people!" said Mordecai as he forced his way through.

"Here! Grab on!" He reached an arm out to Rigby. Rigby quickly grabbed hold, and Mordecai lifted him to his feet.

Putting his arm around his friend's shoulder, Mordecai asked "Rigby, are you okay?"

"Me?" said Rigby, drying a tear from his eye, "I'm fine I guess. Just got my ego bruised, and my underwear ruined, but I'll be alright."

Rigby pulled his underwear back from over his head and tried his best to stuff it back into his pants.

"So Mordecai?"

"Yes, Rigs?"

"You're gonna jump Ricky, so I can kick his ass?"

"Ummm, I don't know."

"What? How come? I thought you'd hated the prick as much I do?"

"Didn't you promise?"

"I don't know, it's just that..."

"Just what?"

"I think you look good in a.."

"In a what?"

"An ATOMIC WEDGIE! Frontal style, Hohhhh!" screamed Mordecai, as he pulled his friend's underwear over his face.

Just then, Rigby woke up sweaty and screaming, his arms thrashing, his claws tearing the comforter covering his face.

"AGH, GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF MEEE!"

Successful, Rigby looked around. He was in the bedroom. A trickle of moonlight seeped in through the blinds, casting a dim light across the otherwise pitch-black room. A digital clocked glowed red, displayed the time (4:25) in segmented numbers. Mordecai was in bed, fast asleep snoring. Nobody else was there.

"Whewww!" said Rigby, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Thank God, it was only a dream."

Looking at his comforter bunched up near his feet, he could see the marks where his claw tore at the fabric.

"Drat! Guess, I'm gonna have to buy another blanket."

"I knew I shouldn't've mixed beer, weed, and caffeine before bed on a weeknight. Next time, I'll stick with the chamomile tea!" he scolded himself before falling back to sleep.


	8. Flight School part 2

An adult Mordecai stood at the edge of the wooden platform.

Turning his head side to side, he scanned the scenery. "Camp TJ is just like I remember it", he thought.

To the left was the lake, and to the right was the camp (a group of cabins surrounding a gravel cul-de-sac). In the distance, he saw pine trees and mountains stretching out as far he could see. Straight ahead, 50 feet away, was his destination, a wood platform attached to a tree, similar to the one he stood on now. Standing on that platform was Coach Troy, holding a megaphone. He looked down. "I must be 50 feet above the ground," he thought. His knees quivered as he thought about how high off the ground and how far from his destination he stood. Neither the safety net strung between the platforms nor the cheers of a crowd gathering below offered him any reassurance.

Gazing into the crowd, he saw many familiar faces: his parents, his grandparents, Rigby, his co-workers, Benson, Eileen, and Margaret. He closed his eyes, as he listened to them chanting his name.

"MORDECAI!" shouted the Coach through his megaphone in his trademark Southern accent.

"YOU READY?"

"Um, Um, Um, Um..." Mordecai replied, nervously.

"ARE YOU SCARED, SON?"

"Um, Um, Um, Um..."

"DON'T BE, YOU GOT THIS!"

"REMEMBER WHAT I TAUGHT YOU. ENGAGE YOUR CORE NOT JUST YOU ARMS. NICE LONG EVEN STROKES, NOT SHORT FLAPS. KEEP YOUR EYES FORWARD. TUCK YOUR FEET IN TO REDUCE DRAG. BUT WHEN YOU'RE READY TO LAND: FEET FORWARD, TALONS OUT."

"Even strokes...engage the core...face forward...feet back. When landing, talons out" Mordecai repeated Coach Troy's words to himself.

"ARE YOU READY?"

"Yes, Sir"

"GOOD, SON. NOW, THEN LET'S DO THIS!"

"Eyes forward... Even strokes... Here it goes."

Mordecai stepped back to the opposite edge of the platform to given himself a running start and generate momentum. He spread his wings as wide as he could, and took off.

Mordecai was off the platform and soaring through the air. "Long even strokes," he said to himself as he flapped his wings.

"LOOKING GOOD OUT THERE"

"Thanks, Coach!"

"YOU'RE HALFWAY ACROSS, REMEMBER HOW TO LAND"

"Yeah, I stick my feet forward and spread my talons for grip"

"GREAT, WHAT'D I TELL YOU, YOU GOT THIS"

Mordecai briefly looked around below him, taking in the scenery.

"Wow, I'm flying, I'm actually flying!" he shouted.

"That's my baby boy!" shouted his Mom.

Muscleman ripped off his shirt, twirled it over his head, and screamed, "WOOT! WOOT!"

"Go, Mordecai!" Margaret cheered.

Meanwhile, a squirrel appeared with a pine cone.

"Cool," said Mordecai. "I wonder what's he doing with that pine cone?"

Mordecai was mesmerized by the squirrel, who was now repeatedly smashing it against a rock to get to the delicious pine nuts inside.

He stopped flapping his wings and started losing altitude.

"What's he doing?" Coach thought.

Unable to open it manually, the squirrel grabbed a miniature jackhammer and proceeded to use it on the stubborn cone.

"Woah, I wonder he got that from?" said an amazed Mordecai.

"MORDECAI!" shouted Coach Troy through his megaphone.

"Huh"

"MORDECAI!"

"YOU'RE LOSING ALTITUDE, KID! PULL UP! PULL UP!"

Mordecai turned away from the squirrel and looked forward again. The platform was 12 feet away. Unfortunately, it was also 12 feet above him, and he was heading straight for the tree instead.

Mordecai started panicking. He flapped his wings furiously but was unable to generate any lift.

"Damnit, that here kid's done put himself into a stall, best be comin in after him!" said the Coach to himself, as he threw down the megaphone and took off. He swooped down towards Mordecai, hoping to give him hand. Unfortunately, he couldn't get his wing close enough for Mordecai to grab onto.

"SHIT!"

The tree was now inches from Mordecai's face. A loud crash was heard and then everything faded to black.

Mordecai woke up. He found himself lying on the floor of a dusty attic, the glass bong from earlier was in an open trunk beside him. "Must've passed out or something," he said to himself.

He dusted himself, shut the trunk, and quietly climbed down the attic stairs. Once down, he gently closed the spring-loaded stairs behind him, taking care not to have them slam against the ceiling.

He tiptoed down the hall and into his darkened bedroom. Rigby was already there, asleep on his trampoline, snoring loudly, with a comforter up to his neck. Mordecai stopped in front of his extra-long twin bed. Slowly, he drew back the sheets, tucked himself in, and closed his eyes.


	9. Morning Meeting

Next morning 7:45 am

The sun has risen, and the crew gathers on the front porch of the green farmhouse ready to start their day. Yawning, sipping coffee, and eating donuts, they wait to hear today's assignments. All are present except Mordecai and Rigby.

"I must say these are quite delicious, these... uh... uh..." said Pops between bites, "oh drats, I forgot the word. What do you call these toroidal cakes again?"

"They call 'em doughnuts Pops" deadpanned Skips.

Benson glances at his watch, "Late as usual" he signs.

"I've waited long enough. Let's start the meeting without them."

"Muscleman, I want you to trim the hedges. Skips and Hi-Fives I need you to plant some bulbs and annuals around the front entrance. I moved the flats to where they need to go earlier this morning. I will be in meetings a day with Maellard talking with various caterers and event planners, but I will have my phone on me in case you need me... Hold on a second." Benson places his clipboard on the ground and starts walking to the house.

Loud arguing could be heard coming through an open window of the house.

"Some friend you are. I am always there for you in a pinch. When you need a wingman to talk with some girl, when you needed some money for food; I've got your back. But that one time when I needed you most, you decided not to show up.

"What are you talking about?"

"Senior high school!"

"What about senior year?"

"The last day of class you were supposed to help me jump Ricky from behind and beat his ass!"

"And what? Get suspended?"

"Suspended? It was the last day of class senior year. How can they suspend you when you no longer have to be there?"

"Dude, they could've made us miss graduation."

"Do you really think they would you hold back a whole year just for that?"

Conceding, Mordecai changed the subject.

"You know Rigby, revenge is not the answer"

"Whadya mean not the answer? Of course, it is! Having kicked his ass, my self-esteem would be renewed and with it my work ethic. I would've been able to focus at summer school and remedial classes, instead of becoming a 25 year old high school dropout working at a park. I might have even gone to college like you."

"Hey, I work at the park, and I dropped out too, from art school. I'm no different than you."

"Well, at least you went. I haven't even been to community college!"

"Rigby, I know what's like to be bullied, alright. But you can't let it define you years later. At some point, you gotta move on."

"Easy for you to say when you are taller". Rigby got cut off by Benson, who was now standing next to them overhearing the conversation.

"WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU TWO SLACKERS DOING? TWO DAYS IN A ROW, YOU ARE LATE FOR THE MEETING. THE CREW AND I HAVE BEEN WAITING HERE PATIENTLY FOR THE PAST FIFTEEN MINUTES FOR YOU TO FINALLY SHOW UP! YOU MAY THINK IT'S FUNNY TO LET BENSON DOWN! BUT KNOW THIS, YOU'RE NOT LETTING ME DOWN, YOU ARE LETTING THE ENT-I-R-E CREW DOWN!"

"NOW IF YOU DON'T WANT TO WORK HERE AND WOULD RATHER STAY UP ALL NIGHT PLAYING VIDEO GAMES, FINE then. BUT NOT ON THE PARK'S DIME AND SURE AS HELL NOT ON THE PARK'S TIME. IT'S A RECESSION, AND I HAVE A STACK OF RESUMES SITTING ON MY DESK FULL OF PEOPLE WANTING YOUR DAMN JOBS. DON'T GET UPSET, IF THREE WEEKS FROM NOW, IT IS THEIR ASSES, NOT YOURS, STANDING THERE WAITING IN LINE TO COLLECT THEIR AWARD!"

"Wow Benson sure sounds pissed," said Hi-Five Ghost, giggling nervously.

"When is he not?" replied Muscleman, chuckling.

Just then, Benson walks out with the two slackers, their heads hanging down, a look of dejection across their faces. The rest of the crew stared silently at the trio. Rigby and Mordecai take a seat at the back of the porch, while Benson returns to the front. Clearing his throat, he addresses his crew.

"I apologize for having you witness what happened earlier. Anyways, Pops, I am placing you in charge today. I need to help Maellard pick out a caterer. I am leaving the clipboard with you. Rigby and Mordecai, I need to speak with you privately. The rest of you can leave."

The crew dispersed leaving Mordecai and Rigby alone on the porch with their boss.

"If you boys need a little privacy, we can do this in the office."

"Sure Benson"

Benson's Office

Benson is seated at his desk. Mordecai and Rigby are seated before him.

"I am placing you two on probation, understand? Do your duties and stay focused for these three weeks, then you can join us at Gala. But if you screw up even once, then I'll have to let you go. With all that's at stake, the park cannot afford mistakes."

"Yes Benson, we understand" they murmured.

"With that said, I have a very important assignment for you two. I need your help picking the band for the upcoming Gala. I want you to research local bands and see who is available. I need band names, rates, genres, setlists, and samples/MP3's if you got them. There can be one or two original songs, but the setlist should be mostly covers, predominantly classic rock, as there will be a lot of older people at the event. The music and lyrics should be clean too. It doesn't have to be kid songs, but it needs to be family-friendly. That means, unfortunately, none of Benson's guilty pleasures like gangster rap, death metal, or anything of the like [Rigby's eyes turned to the NWA CD sitting on his desk, before gazing at the Cannibal Corpse CD on the bookshelf]. I figure since you like music, this should be an easy task."

Mordecai spoke on both his and Rigby's behalf: "We can do that Benson. And, we promise you no more screwups these next three weeks and afterward as well. We understand how we let you and the whole team down, and it's fair for them." Meanwhile, his hand gently yet firmly covered Rigby's mouth to prevent any stray talk from emerging that might jeopardize what little goodwill they have with Benson at the moment.

"Excellent, it's a shame I had to light a fire under your ass, but if it keeps you productive, then it is what it is. I appreciate the sincerity, Mordecai and I look forward to hearing your results. Good luck!"


	10. A Lost Cause

Later that day...

Mordecai and Rigby are sitting at a booth in Delta City's famous "Coffee Shop". Lying between them on top of the table is a gray laptop computer. Directly in front of them are plates of half-eaten food. Intensely they stare at the screen, oblivious to the two room-temperature half-eaten soggy turkey bacon wraps, sagging french fries, and flattening Cokes sitting before them.

"Yo, Mordecai! Check this out! IRON DRAGON, THE ULTIMATE IRON MAIDEN COVER BAND."

"The lead singer dude's even got a full-size tattoo of 'Evil Eddie' etched into his chest!" said an excited Rigby, gleefully pointing his figure at a bare-chested image of the lead singer on their homepage.

"I don't know Rigby, heavy metal sounds a bit too much for the event. How about something more lowkey like these guys, a Steely Dan cover band?"

"Dude, that's lame. Steely Dan is 'dad music'" responded Rigby.

"Uh, hello! Most of the people going to this event are baby boomer types who are both of our Dad's age. Besides aren't you taking your Dad along as your guest?"

"Only to show him that I, Rigobert Riegersson III, am not a total fuckup loser. Not to listen to his lame-ass music!"

Mordecai shook his head, while Rigby's eyes lit up. He started thinking out loud about the prospect to finally show-up his Dad.

"I can't wait to see the look on his face when he sees me on stage, award in hand... He will finally shut up about Donny, and for once, congratulate me instead!"

"I'm calling them up," replied Mordecai.

Mordecai grabbed his phone and began to dial. "No you're not!" said Rigby as he reached out his hand to grab Mordecai's phone only.

"Dude, lay off my phone!" said Mordecai as they struggled over his phone. Finally, Mordecai was able to pry Rigby's hands off of his phone, only to have it slip out and land on the floor, cracking it's screen.

"Dude, what's wrong with you!?" yelled Mordecai to his friend, "Look what you did [holding up the cracked phone]!"

"What do you mean, you're the one who dropped it...Yeouch!"

Mordecai, let out a "Hmmph" and then punched his friend in the tricep.

Rigby moaned in pain and rubbed his sore arm.

"Hello, is this Walter Fagen?

Oh sorry, you're his agent.

Anyways, Hi my name is Mordecai and I work for the Delta City Dept of Parks and Conservation.

And, I calling to see if the band is interested in performing at our annual gala on the 22nd...

What's that? Oh... You say already have a gig that night?

Well, ummm, sorry to bother you then, have a good one."

"Damnit. That is the 15th rejection so far. All the bands I interviewed so far are either booked or they suck."

"Should've called Iron Dragon instead" replied Rigby with a straight face.

"Rigby, I am not calling 'Iron Dragon'"

"Iron Dragon! Iron Dragon! Iron Dragon!"

Rigby repeated the band's name until cut off by Eileen calling out to them from across the room.

"Hey, Rigby! Hey, Mordecai!"

"Oh Hi Eileen!" they replied in unison.

"Whatcha doing over there? I haven't seen either of you touch your food in almost 2 hours."

"Nothing really, just trying to pick out bands for a party," said Mordecai, with slight sadness in his voice.

"OOO! What kind of party?"

"Just the annual Gala."

"What's that?"

"Just a party where Maellard and bunch of rich important people dress up and schmooze over wine and hors d'oeuvres, supposedly to raise money for the park" replied Rigby, before Mordecai had a chance to speak.

"Like a ball?" asked Eileen, eyes lighting up.

For a moment, she envisioned herself in a luxurious ballroom, overlooking a beautiful lake surrounded by mountains. Judging by the ornate trimwork, the facility must have been built in the 1800's. A chamber orchestra was playing "Blue Danube" in the background. She had on beautiful pink dress, that looked like it belonged in a fairytale. Just then a handsomely dressed Rigby wearing a black tuxedo walked up her. He reached out and lifted one of her lace-gloved hands. "M'lady. May I take this dance?"

...

"Yeah, you could say that", Rigby replied. Eileen's vision ended.

"That sounds so cool", she replied or rather squealed".

"Well, it won't be, if we can't find a band" interjected Mordecai.

With a sigh, he explained their predicament to Eileen.

"So anyway, we cannot find a band. Our event is on April 22nd. That's less than 3 weeks from today. We've spent the past two hours asking around, maybe a dozen bands or so. And everyone damn one we've talked to is booked solid for months."

"I guess it's a lost cause. We won't get a band. The party will suck. Benson will fire us for sure [turning towards Rigby] and we'll be forced to live at home with our parents like a bunch of losers."

"Ahhh, Don't say that! I will admit that I can't help you here. I don't enough 'bout the local music scene. But, I am pretty sure Margaret can. She took a course in music journalism last semester, and got to know several of the local artists and bands. From what I understand she has kept in contact with at least some of them"

Mordecai's eyes lit up hearing Margaret's name. "I did not know that. Is she here?" he asked.

Upon hearing Mordecai ask about Margaret, Rigby pulled two small green army men action figures hidden deep in his fur and started playing with them intensely.

"Not yet, but she will be soon. Her shift starts in an hour." Eileen replied.

"I can try calling her now if you like; see if she can come early; help you two out."

"Awesome! Yeah, go do that. Let me know what she says."

Eileen stepped into the kitchen and called Margaret. She explained to her the situation...

"Nice, see ya soon! Goodbye." Eileen hung up that phone, walking back into the seating area.

"So what did she say?" asked Mordecai.

"She'll be here in half an hour," replied Eileen.

"Cool, we'll just play some games in the meantime!" said Mordecai excitedly, as he opened up Minesweeper.

Now was his chance to ask Margaret to come along as his date, he thought. As she will be helping to pick out the band, she might be more receptive. Better still, he can ask her out casually without needing to use one of those calligraphy-laden formal invitations handed to him by Benson. Mordecai made a disgusted face, as he opened and read the gold 2x4 invitation with its gold leaf border and scribbly cursive.

"Esteemed Guest. You have been cordially invited to attend our One-Hundredth Annual Spring Gala, held on the twenty-second day of April, Two-thousand and Six, beginning that evening at six o'clock. We look forward to your arrival. Sincerely, Benson Dunwoody, Park Manager. RSVP"

"Yuck, who writes these things?" he thought.

Pointing to their food, Eileen offered them a sensible alternative: "Or, you can just eat the sandwiches you ordered and spent your money on."

"Well, technically we're not paying for them. Benson's letting us expense 'em."

"So you're turning down a free meal?" asked a puzzled Eileen.

Mordecai looked up at her and shook his head no. Meanwhile, Rigby was still playing with his action figures.

Eileen bent down, taking their plates back to the kitchen. She didn't bother disturbing Rigby, who by now built a fort for his men out of sugar packets.

"I'll go and warm these up. Should only be a couple of minutes" she said as she walked away.

A couple of minutes later, Eileen returned with the sandwiches.

"I had the Cook heat these up for you. Much better now aren't they?"

Eileen takes their sodas to the soda fountain where she dumped their contents and refilled them with fresh Coke and ice.

"Here, you'll probably need these as well," she said upon returning with their refilled Cokes.

Engrossed in play, Rigby didn't notice, until the smell of the warm food hit his nostrils.

Now salivating from the aroma, Rigby stopped playing with his action figures and stared down at his plate.

Without saying a word, Rigby puts away his toys and shoves the food into his mouth.

Upon seeing his friend's lack of table manners, Mordecai rolled his eyes and began to politely eat his food.

Mouth open and full of half-chewed food, Rigby began talking to Eileen. Eileen listened, trying hard not to be grossed out by the spectacle unfolding in Rigby's mouth.

"Thank you Eileen for doing this. These sandwiches are amazing! Hats off to the cook, as well!"

Rigby picked up french fry in his hand, waved it excitedly, and said. "Even the fries are still crisp. Just think, we would've let these go to waste, all because Mordecai over her is too busy to eat. And me being the gentleman, would rather help him in his time of need, then eat without him. Amirite, MOR-D-CAI?" said Rigby, playfully glaring at his friend.

Mordecai swallowed his food first before responding in a deadpan manner:

"A true gentleman doesn't talk with food in his mouth."

Upon which Eileen, Mordecai, and Rigby broke into laughter.

After what seemed like 5 minutes of laughter, Eileen looked around and saw a new customer sitting nervously at the counter, drumming his fingers on the Formica surface.

"Ummm, guys?"

"Yes," said Mordecai; Rigby was still laughing.

"I gotta go. Do you two need anything?"

"Naw, I'm fine," replied Mordecai.

"Me too," replied Rigby as he stopped giggling.

The pair resumed eating. Eileen leaves to help the customer.


	11. Breakthrough

35 minutes later, a small bell tinkles, as the front door to the coffee shop opens.

Hearing this sound, Eileen turns around to see Margaret, her friend, co-worker, and roommate enter the restaurant.

It is evident from Margaret's appearance that she got dressed in a hurry and had to cut corners.

The feathers atop her head are damp from the shower. She forgot her makeup. Her uniform looks a bit disheveled. And, most notably, she forgot about the top buttons on her blouse, granting a glimpse of her cleavage.

"Hey Eileen!" said Margaret, greeting her friend in a loud voice to get her attention.

"Oh Hiya, Margaret."

"Sorry, I'm late."

"Relax, you're only 5 minutes behind schedule."

"I know, I know. It's just this traffic, Urghhh! Anyways, so where're the boys?"

"Over there!" declared Eileen as she pointed to the table where Mordecai and Rigby were sitting. "Cool," said Margaret as quickly walked in that direction.

"Hi guys!" said Margaret from about 12 feet away.

Mordecai, upon hearing her voice ran towards it.

"Hey Margaret, you made it!" he cried out.

"So glad to see you again!" said the bluebird as he put his arms around her waist. "I'm glad to see you as well" replied the robin in return, as she placed her hands around his waist.

"Excuse my appearance, I had to run to get down here..."

"Whatever, You still look beautiful."

"You think?"

"Of course I do."

"Oh Mordecai, you're so sweet!" she replied, kissing him on the lips.

They held each other in a silent embrace for almost 5 minutes. To Rigby, however, this felt like an eternity, as watched with rolling eyes the public display of avian affection before him.

"So I haven't seen you around the coffeehouse as much", said Margaret glancing at her watch.

"Well, you know, work and stuff."

"Benson's been having you work overtime?"

"You could say that."

"Eileen tells me you're setting up some kind of party."

"You mean the Gala?"

"Is that what its called?"

"Yeah"

"She tells me you need help with something..."

"Oh, Yeah!" said Mordecai upon realizing he was distracted. His attraction towards Margaret caused him to forget momentarily the original purpose of the meeting.

"Let me show you."

Mordecai grabbed her hand and lead her to the table. Upon arriving, he let go of her hand; sat down at the booth, and slid towards the wall. Once situated, he tapped the cushion with his hand a few times motioning for her to sit down beside him.

He waited for her to sit down. Then, he grabbed the laptop, placed on the table between them, and opened the lid.

"Oh don't mind me," said Rigby sarcastically, as he got up and moved to a different booth nearby.

"I figured you two lovebirds need some time alone together. I wouldn't want to interfere..."

"Rigby, you're not interfering. Besides, we need your help in picking out the band."

"Well that's interesting..." said Rigby, dripping with sarcasm.

"Less than an hour ago, I offered my opinion regarding a potential band, and YOU REFUSED TO LISTEN!" said Rigby raising his voice to a yell.

"DAMNIT RIGBY, ARE YOU STILL MAD ABOUT IRON DRAGON? MAN, FOR CHRISSAKES, IS THAT WHAT THIS IS ABOUT?" cried Mordecai. Margaret sat in silence, uncomfortably watching the other patrons turn around to see the commotion.

Rigby just huffed and walked away.

Calming down, Mordecai apologized to Margaret for losing his temper.

"Sorry, Margaret."

"It's fine."

While embarrassed at the spectacle, she and Eileen have had arguments of their own. Ultimately, she felt relieved to see that a full-blown fight did not break out.

"Rigby can be stubborn sometimes. He tends to act up when he can't get his way." Mordecai mumbled to Margaret, forgetting that raccoons have an excellent sense of hearing.

"SHUT UP MORDECAI, I HEARD THAT!"

Rigby sat down again at the opposite end of the restaurant, where Eileen was working. He figured he would talk to her, and let Margaret and Mordecai handle the issue of band selection.

"Hey, Eileen!"

"Oh Hi Rigby! Shouldn't you be over there with Mordecai?"

"Well I was, but it seems he'd rather listen to Margaret than me."

"Oh, that's unfortunate"

"Not really, just Mordecai being Mordecai. Anyways, could you get me a strawberry milkshake?"

"Sure thing"

"Hold on a sec, make that two strawberry milkshakes."

"Who's the second one for?"

"You..." Eileen's eyes lit up. Does Rigby share the same feelings, she wondered.

"Well, I figured since I'll need somebody to talk to... I wouldn't want to have her sit and watch me drink a strawberry milkshake by myself."

"Thank you, Rigby! That's so nice of you"

"Don't thank me, thank Benson!" said he as he pulled out the Corporate American Express card Benson gave him.

"My shift ends in about [Eileen peers down at her watch] 15 minutes. Can we have the milkshakes then?"

"No problem!" Rigby replied.

Back at Mordecai's table, Mordecai is explaining the situation to Margaret.

"So the park is having its 100th anniversary, making this year's Spring Gala extra special. Benson's put me and Rigby in charge of band selection. Problem is every band we've called so far is booked! Well, not every band, Rigby wants to hire a heavy metal group, but he seems to forget that our audience is all boomers."

"Hmmm. I see"

"So when is the party?"

"Friday, the 27th. A little over three weeks from now"

"What type of music?"

"Oldies, classic rock. It's a formal get-together. Like I said, its mostly older folks, so we can't get too crazy with the music"

"I think I know someone who can help."

And with that, Margaret stood up and leaned towards the computer and began typing.

As she hunched over the keyboard, the glimpse of cleavage became a wide-angle view. From Mordecai's vantage point, he could see much of her breasts. As one might imagine, this provided him with quite a distraction.

"Let's see... ...no that's no it...umm, that's not it either... AHA! Eureka! Got it."

Margaret typed several URL's into the address bar of the web browser before getting the correct one ( )

The page took several minutes to fully load on the Coffee Shop's slow Wifi connection. This gave Margaret plenty of time to talk.

"About a year and a half ago..." she started.

"I took this music journalism class at the community college. For our final, we had to interview a local band or musician, and write a newspaper article about it. Aside from getting a good grade for the class, the best articles would be published in the Gazette. Needless to say, I was quite stoked. Before I took the class, I met this guy Tommy Sax (actually its spelled Sachs, but he uses Sax for a stage name), busking with his saxophone in the town square. I bought one of his demo CD's and took a liking to it. He and the band play a mixture of covers and original material, and they are quite talented. Naturally, I picked him to interview. Unfortunately, I was late in getting the assignment in, so while got the A, the article, to my knowledge never got published."

Margaret, seeing the page fully loaded, paused for a bit to scroll through some of the pictures.

Meanwhile, Mordecai stood there silent and fixated, trying to look at the screen but spending most of the time staring down Margaret's shirt.

Still, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Tommy, who looked strangely familiar.

"It turns out the story did get published two weeks later, unbeknownst to me, in a different paper, one that functions more like a trade journal for musicians, kind of like NME."

Noticing a certain photo on the website, Margaret paused her scrolling. It was a photo of Margaret interviewing Tommy "Sax" Sachs. She was sitting on a stool wearing a yellow shirt and blue jeans, holding a Dictaphone mini tape recorder. Across from her sat Tommy, with his trademark red mullet and mustache. He was wearing black-rimmed shades, black suspenders, black dress pants, black leather shoes, and a white sleeveless undershirt. Strung loosely across his chest was a silver-plated tenor saxophone.

"Anyhow, three months ago, I get this strange letter in the mail. In it, was an autographed photo of me interviewing him, and a short hand-signed note. The note thanked me for giving him and the band the biggest break of their careers. It turns out, the article led to them getting hired for a residency by the Sticky Fingers Blues Club down on 13th street. Which in turn, lead them to land a deal with Pacific Records. Anyhow, he included a schedule for their upcoming tour, and his contact information (phone, band webpage, and email), and tells that if I was in town for any of those dates, he could hook me and my friends up with backstage passes and free tickets..."

Margaret rummaged through her purse and pulled out a crumpled sheet of white paper and a faded business card. "Bingo!" she cried and placed them on the table.

"It looks like on the 25th, they're playing in Sacramento. But on the 273rd, they will be in Chicago. Might be cutting it close, but its worth a shot. What do think, Mordecai, shall I give him a call?"

"Huh, Whu?" said Mordecai, upon hearing his name.

"Are you even paying attention to me?" Margaret asked.

"Ummm, yeah, Ummm" replied an embarrassed Mordecai.

Noticing the direction of Mordecai's eyes, Margaret concluded the obvious. "Let me guess, you were too busy staring at my boobs."

"Uhhh, no I wasn't," said Mordecai both sheepishly and defensively.

"Yeah, you were" sniggered Rigby, who overhead the entire conversation with his raccoon ears. Mordecai, however, didn't hear Rigby.

"Umm, OK, I admit, I was. Sorry!" continued Mordecai.

"It's OK Mordecai" replied the robin as she patted him on the head.

"Don't feel bad about it," she continued while she buttoned the two remaining buttons on her blouse that she forgot about earlier.

"I mean, if it were another guy, one that I wasn't interested in, I would probably have slapped them or something... But with you, I don't know. I think it's cute in a way. It means that you are attracted to me."

"So you are saying I should continue staring at your boobs then?" replied Mordecai jokingly.

"No dumbass, I want you to stare at the screen, so I can get your opinion regarding this band. I'm just saying, I wasn't made that stared at them earlier. That's all."

Mordecai looked at the images on the screen. Sure enough, it was him. Tommy Sachs is Sad Sax Guy. A look of fear crept across his face. "My God, it's him, it's really him" he thought.

"Mordecai, is there something wrong?" asked Margaret, concerned at the bluejay's sudden change in demeanor.

"I don't think we should hire him, Margaret" he replied quickly in a worried tone.

"How come?"

"Tommy Sachs is Sad Sax Guy," said Mordecai without emotion.

"Sad Sax Guy? Who's he?" asked Margaret curiously.

"You'd probably not understand this but... He's this guy that appears out of nowhere playing his saxophone whenever something bad that is about to happen to me."

"We can't have him play. I mean, He'll bring bad luck. And with the rest of the band present (sad singer guy, sad bass guy, sad guitar guy, and sad keyboardist guy), something flat out monumentally terrible will happen. I mean, like a black hole swallowing up Earth or something." said Mordecai, agitatedly.

"Mordecai, he may be our only choice. It's this guy or no band."

"No band then. Benson will fire me, but I cannot put the Park through this. I cannot put you through this"

"Mordecai, don't be silly. You said he brings bad luck to you, but it seems like he brought good luck to me. Or rather I brought good luck to him. Either way, good luck cancels out bad. Hence, problem solved!"

"That's not how it works."

Margaret's voice tensed as she spoke. She felt Mordecai was being irrational. Sad Sax/Tommy Sachs seemed like the best candidate for the job under the current circumstances. Mordecai would need to offer her a better explanation if she were to rule him out.

"It's not? Then please explain. I got less than ten minutes 'til my shift starts. I didn't come here early, just to accomplish nothing. I'm offering my help. I figure the least we can do is to call him up. That way we can at least get a yay or nay vote."

"OK. Like I said. Whenever something bad happens, Sad Sax Guy shows up. When I broke up with my last girlfriend, Sad Sax Guy was there. When I dropped out of art school, he was there too! When I crashed the car I got for high school graduation, Sad Sax Guy was there, too. I can't have him play here.

I'm just afraid that if he shows up again, I will lose everything: I will lose my job; I will lose you; Hell, I may even lose my best friend, Rigby."

"I appreciate that," interjected Rigby.

"We may even lose the World..."

"I think you got it all wrong. Sometimes bad things need to happen to make way for the good. Sad Sax Guy isn't the bearer of bad news, rather he's the bearer of good news. I mean, if it wasn't for him, you wouldn't have gotten the job at the Park, and you wouldn't have met me! [kissing him on the cheek]. I still have 7 minutes left [glancing at her watch], let's give him a call."

Mordecai thought about what she said for a minute.

Is his mind's eye, he recalled the car accident.

It was late at night on a pitch-black two-lane road.

He was driving home from college for winter break, on what must've been 2 hours of sleep, and his brain was in a fog.

The loud music and the strange sight of a man standing in the shoulder playing the saxophone, his face illuminated by the high beams of his parked car helped him regain his focus. And not a moment too soon, as he barely had enough time to swerve out of the way of a giant elk standing in the middle of the road. He swerved into a ditch and damaged the front end. However, the car wasn't totaled and it got repaired. And, both he and the deer escaped injury.

"You're right, Margaret. Let's do this!" said Mordecai.

"Excellent," she said as she pulled out her cellphone and placed it on the table between herself and Mordecai.

She dialed the number on the business card and put the phone into speaker mode.

After a few rings, a man with a gruff voice picked up the phone.

"Hello, Is this Tommy Sachs?" asked Margaret.

"Yep, It's him! Who's this?"

"Margaret Smith"

"Margaret Smith... Wait... don't tell me. You're that interview chick!"

"Yup it's me!" said Margaret with a laugh.

"Well, I guess that means you got my little note, then. It's been a couple of months since I sent it. When I didn't hear back, I thought maybe I put down the wrong address."

"Well, here I am! And I am here with my friend Mordecai, who needs to ask a very special favor from you."

"Mordecai, you mean the bluebird dude?"

"Yup, that's me," said Mordecai with an awkward laugh. Phone calls were never his strong suit.

"Holy Shit! Small freakin' world ain't it? My gal pal, Margie, has been seeing my main man, Mordo! Damn, what a happy coincidence."

"You seemed pretty down last time we spoke. Dropped outta school, broke up with the ladyfriend. And now, here you are: Working at the park, and hanging with dear ol' Margie."

"Well, I am in a much better place now," replied Mordecai.

"Well, that's good to hear... Anyway, so tell me how long you two been seeing each other?"

"Ummm, well, uh, we've known each other for more than a year. But we've been dating, if you want to call it that, for about..."

Mordecai turns to Margaret and asks, "5 Months?"

"5 Months," she replied.

"5 Months," said Mordecai into the receiver.

"Excellent!"

"And Margie, has he been treating you well for those 5 months?"

"Ummm. For the most part." giggled Margaret.

"Well's that good. Cuz if he weren't, jus' lemme know and I'll be sure to beat his ass for you."

"OK, Tom" giggled Margaret again.

"Anyways, Sad Sax Guy," said Mordecai

"Please, call me Tom."

"OK, Tom!"

"You know how I'm working for the park now?"

"Yes..."

"Well, um, on Friday, April 22nd, the park is celebrating its 100th anniversary."

"Well, Congratulations!"

"Thanks! Anyway, We're throwing a big gala that night. Party runs from 6 PM until midnight. And, we'd like you and the crew to be the house band."

"Ordinarily, I'd say no, as our asses are flying out to Chicago the next day. But since it's you, AND ONLY because it's you, my dear Mordecai, I'm in."

"Great. So how much will it cost? Not that it matters so much, Mr. Maellard'll cut the check. Just that, I need to get a number for the budget."

"Bro, it's free! Just remember to plug our new CD."

"Thank you, Tom. This means so much to us at the Park"

"Pleasure's mine, Mordo! Pleasure mine, Mordo!"

"Anyhoo, gotta bounce. Need rehearse a few new tunes for tonight's gig."

Click! Tom hung up.

"See Mordecai! That wasn't so bad!" she exclaimed.

"Thank you Margaret for the help! You really saved our asses."

"Anytime, babe!"

Margaret looked down at her watch and got up. "Welp, time to punch in. Guess I'll see you around."

Margaret walked towards the large timeclock in the kitchen to punch in and begin her shift.

"Guess I'll see you around, as well" Mordecai replied, wistfully, watching as she made her way towards kitchen. "God, she's so beautiful," he thought to himself.

"WAIT!" Suddenly Mordecai remembered something. He got up and ran towards her. He intercepted her behind the counter, in front of the kitchen door grabbing her arm from behind.

Startled, Margaret turned around. "WHAT!?" she exclaimed.

"Margaret, there's something I forgot to ask you."

"Sure, what is it? But be quick! I got to punch in."

"I'll be quick. You know that Gala the Park's hosting?"

"Well, Maellard's invited the entire staff, and he plans to honor our service with an awards ceremony. The mayor and a bunch of other famous types are supposed to be there. So it should be pretty cool."

"That's wonderful, Mordecai."

"But, there's more. Not only will the staff be invited, but we are allowed to bring guests along for free."

"So, my question is...You don't have to say yes, but... Will you be my guest for the Gala? It doesn't have to be a date. I mean it could be a date, if you want."

Mordecai nervously stuttered and slurred his words.

"Yes Mordecai, I want to go, and yes I want to be your date."

Mordecai's eyes lit up, but quickly faded.

"I just have one little problem."

"What's that?" Mordecai asked in a somber tone.

"Well, I need to check with my manager first and see if I can take that day off."

"Oh, OK. How soon will you know?"

"Eileen, Is Joe coming in this afternoon?" shouted Margaret at her friend.

"I believe so, him and the owner, George, are supposed to be demo'ing the new espresso machine." shouted back Eileen.

"Well, there's your answer. I'll let you know tonight. Or if it's too late, tomorrow morning."

"Awesome, I look forward to hearing from you, one way or another."

"Well...gotta go!"

Margaret hurried into the kitchen to begin her shift. Mordecai walked towards Rigby's table and began talking to him.

"Rigby, let's go! Time we tell Benson the good news about the band."

"That's OK, Mordecai. I'm gonna stay here and talk with Eileen."

"Alright, suit yourself." Mordecai left the coffee shop and headed back to the Park.

Eileen and Rigby are sitting down at a booth, talking about random subjects while sipping their strawberry milkshakes.

Towards the end of his shake, Rigby decides to ask an important question.

"So, Eileen, quick question..."

"Yes?"

"Would you like to go to the Gala with me?"

Sure! I'd love to go."

"Awesome!"

"Now another question. Do you mind if I bring my dorky Dad along? I kinda need him to be there."

"No, not all."

"Great!"

Rigby hugged Eileen, which caused her to blush.

"Anyways, I'm almost done with this milkshake. Mordo's probably back at the Park by now. I bet Benson's wondering where I am."

"Alright, Let me get you a to-go cup."

Eileen grabbed Rigby's shake and went back to the kitchen.

Moments later she emerged with a paper cup filled to the brim with strawberry milkshake and topped with a plastic lid and straw.

"Cook topped it off for you, so now you get two shakes for the price of one!"

"Sweet, that's so nice of you!" Rigby kissed Eileen on the cheek as he took the milkshake from her hand. Eileen, once again, blushed.

"Well, gotta go! See you around!" Rigby waved goodbye and headed out the front door.

"See you around!" replied Eileen, quietly, almost to herself.

"I guess he does like me," she said to herself with a smile.


End file.
